The Millennial (Prologue, 18+)

“Where were you on 9/11?”

                It was a question Jeremy asked of everyone upon first meeting.

                And here, Argo’s Roast, an organic coffee shop where some of the blends had the suspicious taste of feet. It was 1AM and David Mason was reading a book, some tome about psychosomatic drugs and Japanese imports. A table away, he noticed a skinny Korean staring at him over a university magazine. That was when he was posed the question. David knew right away that this soul was a source of some infinite intrigue. He approached the table.

                “Mrs. Ambridge’s math class,” David answered, taking the seat next to his new friend. “We had just reviewed logarithms.”

                Jeremy grew less tense. He could accept any answer that included a classroom. Too old, and he didn’t trust you. Too young, and he didn’t want to know you.

                 “How about you?” David shot back.

                 “Taking a piss,” Jeremy said nonchalantly. “Some guy comes up to the urinal next to me and says, ‘You heard about the towers?’ And I thought, ‘What the hell does anybody care about any towers?’” He fiddled with the lid of his coffee. “Before I had even left the classroom to piss, I remember telling my biology teacher that I needed the hall pass so that I could fly myself out of that fucking school. Poor choice of words, now that I look back.”

                 “You said ‘fuck’ to your biology teacher?”

                 “No,” Jeremy said, annoyed. “And that’s not the poor choice I was speaking of.”

                 David scratched his goatee, a short patch of bristles scraping the bottom of his chin. He sipped on his hot cocoa; not much of a coffee drinker. He looked at this thin Korean sitting in front of him with his spiked hair, his green tank top, and his flashy pink watch and tried to gauge what exactly he was all about. “You watched the news when you got back then?” David asked.

                “Oh, no. This jenny was hardcore when it came to learning.”

               David chuckled. “Jenny?”

               “Another poor word choice.”

               “She didn’t let you watch 9/11?”

               “Nope. Made us do Punnett squares. Aa and Bb. Supposed to let you know if your mother was fucking the milkman.”

               “I don’t think they have milkmen anymore.”

               “Not here, anyway,” Jeremy said. “But it was good news. Mom and Dad are mom and dad. Not that Dad really cares if this homo is his. You?”

               David took another sip from his mug. “I guess I wouldn’t know. My father died when I was ten.”

               Jeremy’s face turned pale. “Oh shit,” he swore. “This isn’t one of those gotcha things is it? Like your dad didn’t actually die and you’re gonna start laughing real soon here?”

              “No,” David said, smiling sadly. “No, he died. But I didn’t know him. Not well, anyway. He came back to us when I was like nine and knocked up my mom with my little sister. Then just vanished again.”

              “I’ve gotta open my mouth,” Jeremy said, looking uncomfortable. “I owe you one now. A good deed. You can cash it when you need it, but I just met you, so don’t make it too big.”

              “A good deed?” David asked. “Anytime?”

              “Anytime.”

              “I’ll keep that in mind,” David said, finishing off the rest of his cocoa.

              “You better,” Jeremy answered, standing to leave. “I only do favors for people I like.”

----

                “There,” Jeremy said, pointing to a small shop huddled underneath a bulky red canopy. “Hungry?”

                David tried to see where his new friend was pointing, but could only make out a small salad shop. “There?”

                “It’s not open,” Jeremy said, looking at his watch. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t eat. It’s five past three; they’ve just dropped off the good stuff.” Jeremy led David down an alleyway eventually stopping at a series of trashcans. He grabbed a blue plastic bag that looked as if it had been gently placed on top.

                “Open it,” Jeremy demanded.

                “If this is some exercise in trust, I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

                “Just open it.”

                David opened it. Inside he found a collection of plastic containers, and within each one of those he found a series of mixed greens. There were green lettuces and purple, an assembly of endive and arugula and radicchio. There were organic carrots and hydroponic tomatoes, all grown locally and all sourced with the greatest confidence. There were vinaigrettes of the fat-free variety and oils that would make native Italians jealous.

                “This is disgusting,” David said.

                “I know, they were going to throw it all away.” Jeremy latched onto a container filled with a spinach spring blend.

                “No, I mean eating out of the garbage.”

                “It’s perfectly edible,” Jeremy retorted. “Assembled just yesterday morning. ‘Each artisan salad is crafted with the utmost care and with only the choicest ingredients.’” Jeremy opened the lid of his plastic container and retrieved the plastic fork from within. “Choicest,” he said. “Choicest. Is that a real word? Choicest.”

                “I would think it is.”

                “Choicest. Yes, I would say so as well.”

                “These are just thrown away every night?” David asked. He hesitantly grabbed a container filled with romaine and cherry tomatoes. Jeremy handed him a packet of balsamic vinaigrette.

                “Three o’ three, every morning. Right on the dot. Three o’ three on the dot—good title for something.” Jeremy shrugged and moved onto the next spinach salad. “I’ve done my research. Three o’ three, they throw the stuff out. At four, the delivery comes. Who knows why so early? I suppose salads must be constructed, deconstructed. It takes time to for one to deconstruct. There may be the wrong lettuce or an overestimation of onion. Each salad is a finished work. It is art mastered by artisans. It would be torturous for one too many tomatoes. It would be wrong if the radish were cut rashly.”

                David had nearly finished his own salad. “What does it matter if it’s just going to be thrown out?”

                “Art expires,” Jeremy said with a quixotic tone. “It goes out of fashion. Art makes its home, and then it’s tossed out the door, useless and outdated. Art rots when it’s been sitting around too long. It’s best to get rid of it before it starts to smell.”

                David grabbed another salad from the blue bag. “None of this is rotten.”

                “You see,” Jeremy said. “Perfectly edible.”

----

                The night itself had nearly expired and Jeremy was walking his new friend home. They went along the railroad tracks, at times stepping plank to plank, at others trailing atop the thin metal rail. Jeremy looked chilled in his tank top, but he said nothing of it.

                “I saw a movie once,” David started, “where this guy got his shoe stuck in the train tracks. Train came and ran him right over.”

                “That makes little sense,” Jeremy said. “There is always the option of removing the shoe.”

                “He tried, but failed. The shoe was stuck, the laces too tight. His parents had taught him the art of shoe-tying too well. It was the end of him.”

                “He was foolish enough to get stuck in the tracks, but too skilled at tying to get out. What does that make him? Incompetently competent. Or perhaps competently incompetent.”

                “I think it makes him dead.”

The sky lightened and traces of the sun began to creep over the horizon. To one side there sat an abandoned railroad car filled with graffiti. Jeremy and David rushed over and sat, legs hunched over the sides. They watched as a series of geese passed overhead, one of the birds struggling to keep up with the rest. The bird was lagging far behind, and though it didn’t appear injured, they could tell it would not be able make it with the rest of the group.

“I need to talk to you about something,” David said.

Jeremy pulled a cigarette pack and offered one to David. He refused. Jerremy lit up and gave his friend the look. The one that says Do you mind? even though the cigarette has already been lit.

“They kill you, I know,” Jeremy said, trailing the cigarette in the air.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” David replied.

“But you thought it. I know what that thought looks like.”

“You can’t see a thought,” David said.

Jeremy puffed on his cigarette, staring straight ahead. “The average human can comprehend an image in approximately five hundred milliseconds; human thought has a speed. It travels through intricate, interconnected pathways in the brain. Neuron to neuron, flash moments react. Chemistry and electricity. A synopsis of synapses.”

                David sighed and shifted so that his he was looking at Jeremy’s face. “I just need to say that you’re the only other gay guy I’ve met in Helvetica Springs.”

                “If thought has a speed,” Jeremy went on, “then thought has a mass. Mass is observable. Mass is quantifiable.”

                “I’ve been in school here two years, and you’re the only one.”

                “They always illustrate thought as some glowing orb navigating a tubular shaft. Is that the shape of human thought? A series of orbs rolling around in some tunnels?”

                “Of course, my closest friend Heather knows. And Russ, but he found out by accident. I thought it would be easier to come out to my family if I knew someone who had gone through it before.”

                “And if thought has mass, then perhaps we can learn to harness that mass so it can be used outside the body. The mind cast without limits. Orbs drifting overhead like radio signals.”

                “I need you to help me come out. I think this is the favor I was meant to ask for. I don’t know any other gays.”

Jeremy stubbed the end of his cigarette out on the floor of the boxcar. He flicked the remainder outside. “What the hell, man? Don’t you get out much?”

                “No,” David answered. “And I only came out to Heather last year.”

                Jeremy nodded as if he knew something profound. “The drought,” he said.

                “The drought?”

                “You see, unless you come out when you’re secretly fucking someone, there is some profound rule of the gods that you will not get any until a year is up.”

                “What?” David said. “That’s insane.”

                “How long ago did you say you came out to your friend?”

                “…a year ago.”

                “And I’m the first gay you’ve met here, so ergo…”

                David blushed. “You know what that implies?”

                “Gays can’t be friends, man,” Jeremy said with a crooked smile. “At some point they always gotta fuck.”

                David started for a moment. “You don’t believe that, do you?” he asked.

                “Just you wait and see.”

                David laughed nervously and gave his new friend a gentle nudge. “I guess you haven’t met me yet, then.”

                Jeremy chuckled and shoved David back. “Oh, I already checked you out. I know exactly where you were on 9/11.”